A Human Corpse
by SashaDaae
Summary: Erik ponders what he is-Corpse, Ghost, Angel-as he composes his masterpiece, Don Juan Triumphant. "I could never leave my music, you see. It is impossible for a Corpse such as I...."


DISCLAIMER: Not. Mine. –stifled sob- Leroux, ALW. Yesss.

Told from Erik's POV ^_^ A bit more Leroux Erik meets John Owen Jones..hehe. (I know, I know, I'm a dork..just play along? Hah)

I'd consider adding another chapter to this, perhaps in Christine or the Daroga's POV; if any of you lovely reviewers would like me to, go ahead and tell me! Flames feed my fire, constructive criticism my soul ^_^

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_"`Will you play me something out of your Don Juan Triumphant?' I asked, thinking to please him._

_`You must never ask me that,' he said, in a gloomy voice. `I will play you Mozart, if you like, which will only make you weep; but my Don Juan, Christine, burns; and yet he is not struck by fire from Heaven.'_

_Thereupon we returned to the drawing-room. I noticed that there was no mirror in the whole apartment. I was going to remark upon this, but Erik had already sat down to the piano._

_He said, `You see, Christine, there is some music that is so terrible that it consumes all those who approach it. Fortunately, you have not come to that music yet, for you would lose all your pretty coloring and nobody would know you when you returned to Paris. Let us sing something from the Opera, Christine Daae.' " _–Apollo's Lyre

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Corpses, by law of nature, are not supposed to be alive. One dies, is laid to rest in a coffin, and then their families and friends attend their funeral and pretend to sob over their lifeless bodies as if they ever really gave a damn. Then comes decomposition- truly a lovely stage, when cells start breaking down and flies and other horrid things come and dwell inside the body. Unless, of course, you are embalmed- not that it matters in the end, as I hardly think that once you're nailed and sealed in those planks of wood anyone will really care of your appearance.

Corpses do not feel. Corpses do not speak, do not move, have no emotion; their soul is no longer apart of the body and they are a mere shell.

But God- God loves to play games. He brings Lazarus back to life, he kills his one and only Son upon two planks of wood and then brings him back to his ethereal Home in the sky. God loves to toy- he is like a child in his creations, always experimenting.

I suppose God wanted to see what happens when you bring a corpse to life. Well, even his Almighty Lord makes mistakes. Unfortunate that this was one he did not immediately discard.

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But what about Ghosts? Do they have feelings? If they do, they are quite simple and laughable- happy, sad, angry. They have the vocabulary and intelligence of a mere child. If I am a ghost, well then…_I am a very brilliant one!_

At least ghosts cannot see their reflection. People bother them, they find them interesting and enchanting- what a load of hogwash that is! They turn to fairy tales and stories rather than face- face something as hideous as…

As myself.

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It is when I perform that I feel the most alive. And ironically, it is also when I become most like a Corpse, a Ghost. I do not eat, do not sleep- the music is my lifeline, nourishing and revitalizing me.

Sometimes I hardly feel I am myself when I compose. It flows from my fingertips endlessly; I know that if I stop, the world will halt and everything around me will cease to exist. It consumes me for days, refuses to leave me; it is a tumor, a malignant growth only relieved on parchment and organ, ink and violin. If only Nadir knew; he listens to it, calls it macabre and beautiful.

Even my greatest friend, my only friend, does not know that I have bared my soul to him. Yes, a corpse, with a soul.

Unimaginable, even by God's standards.

_

Sometimes, as absurd and unimaginable as it is, I feel like an angel. When I listen to her voice, hear her speak to me with such reverence and adoration, I feel as if I could rival Gabriel himself!

Then I remember my knotted skin, the hideous brutality that is supposed to be a face and remember that not even Lucifer himself could face me.

It is those times, when I feel heavenly and pure, that the music inside of me quells and silences. Then I am able to live! Yes, yes, the Living Corpse lives and breathes, he prays to God and asks forgiveness for his murderous thoughts.

But the music returns. It always returns- it grows within me and screams to be let out; I can only obey. You see, being a musical genius comes with a high price; the price I pay is absurdly high. It is a wonder I am not swimming in debt! Don Juan Triumphant was my first love, if you could call it that. And yet that relationship was full of anger and abuse, sleepless nights and agonizing days.

I could never leave my music, you see. It is _impossible_ for a Corpse such as I.

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Don Juan Triumphant beckons to me, and yet I am torn.

Christine…I must see her. Must hear her voice; she is my angel, my love. My soul must rest for a while, and I shall return to it. Tonight belongs to the creature that has stolen the organ that beats feebly within my shell.

___

Oh God, what madness! She has asked me to play my masterpiece. Christine, my dear, even you cannot stand to witness my soul, as it would rip you apart and steal you of your innocence.

I have begun to think of my soul and my face as one in the same- either way, the little lamb would die of shock; that, or she would never return to me. Either way it would crush her and ruin her.

And when I play for her, and she rips off my mask…

I feel as if every bit of me has been torn to shreds.

I am no Ghost, no Corpse, no ethereal being sent by the Lord. _I am man._

I tell myself this is I perform my masterpiece, my entity; and yet, as the salty wetness runs down my face, I can hardly believe it myself.


End file.
